


our fingers slip on the slivers

by orphan_account



Series: shatter [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Past Rape/Non-con, Referenced Bill/Ford, Referenced Dipper/Ford, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:45:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It could be worse, Ford tells himself, over and over again. It could be worse. Dipper could be dead. Ford could be Dipper’s only source of human contact. Dipper could be utterly alone.How Ford spends the first few weeks after the incident.





	

It’s slow-going. Ford keeps having to stop, because he is confused, and again because he is nauseous, and again because he thinks he’s heard a daen, before remembering that he is on Earth and there’s no proof that they’re here. At one point he stops and begins to panic, because the only good reason he has for not knowing where he is or why he’s there is Bill – Bill is back, Bill has been in him, Bill has seen it all – and then, as he scrapes his fingers over his skull, he remembers Jheselbraum’s kindness, and he relaxes.

He wakes at midday over the port of the spacecraft. He’s filthy, covered in mud and leaves and the detritus of the forest, and he’s confused. Ford is not a stranger to disorientation. He focuses on his body, first. He’s had a concussion – is still a little dazed, but mostly just sore, a migraine pounding away in his skull. He stands, and goes to the nearby stream, and washes himself off as best as he can. As he does, his memories of the night – the ones that he supposes will stick, finally – come back to him.

Ford climbs back up the spacecraft and sits, gazing out at the cliff. He wants to cry, but giving into self-pity is pointless, and not something he deserves. So he rubs his thumb into his temple, trying to ease the migraine, and eventually gives up, and takes off his coat, and lays back with it blocking out the sun. A cow meanders over and begins to chew sedately on his pant leg. He lets it.

He will need to collect himself and address the problem – the _real_ problem, that is, which is the problem of Bill Cipher. For now, he breathes in the musty smell of his own body, and waits for the pain to pass.

*

It could be worse, Ford tells himself, over and over again. It could be worse. Dipper could be dead. Ford could be Dipper’s only source of human contact. Dipper could be utterly alone. Someone could have come in during. It could have been violent. At least Ford knows that Dipper is safe, and surrounded by people he trusts – a circle in which Ford no longer belongs – and will be able to recover. At least they all know Bill, and Bill’s limits, and Bill’s means of action. Dipper knows where Ford’s scrambler is, and how to use it. They know the spells necessary to protect the house.

It could be worse.

But Ford moves in a haze, one that is familiar to him, a physical checklist he’s had to play through again and again. Make shelter. Find water. Find food. Maintain hygiene. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. He is aware that it is unhealthy. He is aware that he needs to return to the Shack, that Stan probably regrets what he’s said and that, even if he doesn’t, Ford’s skills are more necessary than his mistake is unforgivable.

The worst part of it might be the anticipation. Ford keeps waiting for Bill to appear, to gloat, to rub his face into it like one might a bad dog. He keeps waiting for someone to crest the hill – Stan, or Mabel, or, worst of all, Dipper – and seek justice from him. He keeps waiting for the ax of his own heart to fall, for all that he’s lost to finally sweep over him and leave him useless.

None of it happens. He spends a day alone, and then two, and three, and then he stops counting, and just survives.

*

He is deep in the spacecraft, taking apart a stabilizer, when he hears a human voice for the first time in over two weeks.

“Great Uncle Ford?”

Ford stops. He sets his multi-tool down, and stands, and turns around. He folds his hands behind his back. Dipper is there, his body and his face at odds – he stands tall, and sure, but he looks afraid. “Dipper,” Ford says. He glances behind Dipper, but sees no one else. He can’t fathom that Dipper would come alone; where are the others?

Dipper swallows. Then, he tosses something at Ford; Ford flinches and catches it. It’s a flashlight. “Come here,” Dipper says. “I want you to know it’s me.”

Ford can’t. He can’t do this. He can’t take another step closer to Dipper. But he needs to know, desperately, that this is his nephew, that it’s not another trick. He needs to know he will not make the same mistake again. He flicks on the flashlight and steps closer. Dipper doesn’t tense. He lifts his chin and waits.

Ford points the light into Dipper’s left eye, then the right. He’s not willing to touch his face, to pull his eyes open wide and seek out the traces of yellow that might be at the edges, but he doesn’t need to. Dipper’s eyes are clear, steadfast, human. Ford flicks off the flashlight and backs away again. He folds his hands behind him.

“You need to come home,” Dipper says. 

“Has Bill done something else?” Ford says. “You remember the runes you need to protect the house, don’t you? And the unicorn hair. Don’t forget the unicorn hair.”

“We protected the Shack,” Dipper says. He is holding himself very stiffly, like he’s keeping himself from running. “I’m not – I’m not saying this because of Bill. We don’t need you to beat him again.” 

It might as well be a physical blow. “Ah,” is all Ford manages to say. That’s right, he thinks, dimly. He is a liability. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he could be arrested for what he’s done. He wonders if that’s what this is.

Dipper rubs his arm and looks away. “Look, I…” He swallows. “I’m…not okay with what happened. I don’t know how to feel about – about you, or any of it. But you’re family. You need to come home. That’s the only way we can make things right. It’s – the only way I can understand.”

Ford won’t cry in front of him. As such, he can’t speak. He blinks at Dipper, and then turns, and walks a few steps away. He clears his throat. “What is there to understand?” he says, finally.

Dipper makes a frustrated noise. “For fuck’s sake, Ford, get _over_ yourself!” Ford turns, stunned. “Maybe I want to understand how much of that was Bill! Maybe I want to understand who _you_ are! Maybe it’s _not your choice_ whether or not I hate you forever!”

Dipper closes the gap between them, his tennis shoes screeching against the metal. He grabs Ford’s coat at the arm, something he’s done a hundred times, so familiar that Ford can almost forget what he is to Dipper, now. “Just – come home. If you leave again, at least we’ll know it’s not just because you and Grunkle Stan were freaking out.”

Ford shuts his eyes. He can’t say no to Dipper.

*

Dipper hasn’t told anyone where he went. That much is apparent the moment they come out from the treeline into the yard; Stan and Mabel are on the porch, cheering Soos on as he tosses peanuts into the air to catch in his mouth. The silence that comes over the yard has weight.

Soos is the one who breaks it. “Oh, uh. Sup, Mr. Pines.”

Ford doesn’t look at him. He gazes steadily at Waddles, who sleeps between Mabel and Stan’s feet. Dipper doesn’t stop, stalking across the yard, up the porch, inside.

“So,” Soos says, “uh. Was that like. Another Bill thing, or…?” He says it in the same casual lilt he says everything with, but Ford knows a threat when he hears one. 

Ford tosses the flashlight on the ground, as if that explains anything. Mabel jumps to her feet and hurries inside, screaming Dipper’s name. Stan keeps sitting where he is, staring at Ford with an inscrutable expression. “I wouldn’t have come,” Ford says, “if he hadn’t asked.”

“Dipper did?” Soos says. He rubs the back of his neck. “Ah geez, well. If the dude wants you here…” He shrugs, and leans his head back, and tosses a peanut in the air.

Stan gets to his feet, slowly. He steps off the porch. He crosses the yard, and comes to a stop very, very close to Ford. He looks Ford up and down. “You need a shave,” he says. “You look like shit.” The words are ones that would normally be gruff and kind – now, it’s an insult, his pleasure in it not needing to be stated in so many words.

“I imagine I do,” Ford says. Stan opens his mouth and lifts a hand – but Ford is exhausted, and has heard it all a hundred thousand times in his mind by now. He catches Stan’s wrist. “I would be more upset if you didn’t monitor me.” Stan yanks his hand away and narrows his eyes. “It won’t happen again,” he says. “I can promise you that.” 

*

The worst insult is this: Bill comes to him, now.

Ford spends most of the first few days in the basement or outside, sometimes on the roof, most often walking nearby, keeping himself to a perimeter that seems to be acceptable to Dipper. One hazy, humid afternoon, Ford sits with his back against a tree, close enough to the Shack that he can see its totem pole through the trees. He shuts his eyes, for just a moment.

“You know, it really has been _too long,_ Stanford. I’ve missed you! Could you tell? Admit it, you missed me too! You can’t lie to me, Brainiac! I know what you really want. Huh – I guess we _all_ do, now!”


End file.
